


Twisted Little Star

by Kozmotittspitchiner



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Jack is a little brat punk, Lolita Inspired Modern AU, M/M, in which all of the characters modern version will eventually appear, lots of banter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kozmotittspitchiner/pseuds/Kozmotittspitchiner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like there haven't been boys before him. He's always going to have a corner in Kozmotis' heart, though. All of him. But what will remain forever, if not longer than that, is his twisted little star.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Twisted little star. Three words, too many sharp sounds and quiet taps of tongue to teeth to be tender in any way. The black ink makes his skin look even paler.

In the morning, he's Jack. Sleepy, hair peeking into too many directions at once. His lips tugged into a pout. He's Jack when he's trying to make sense of things, gnawing at his pencil, looking up, eyes full of a question he doesn't really feel like asking. He's Jack when he's talking to Jamie, laughing too much, making too many movements. He's Jack when he's bothering him in the afternoon, when he throws his back pack into the wrong corner of the hallway or when he's forgotten to pick up the trash on his way outside.

He's Jack Frost when he's bent over in the most impossible angle, typing things to post them online. He's Jack Frost when he's stayed up to long to draw, but is still filled with so much energy that his smile is making Kozmotis feel sick. He's Jack Frost when he doesn't want to be Jack anymore, when he's missing his family.

He's Jackson when he's forced into formal clothing. Jackson, who seems to be polite and attentive. Jackson, who looks so good in a tie and blazer Jacket.

But he's his twisted little star when he's waking him up in the middle of the night, ice blue eyes glinting in the light of the moon, trying to coax his cock to life. He's his twisted star when his lips are plump and pink from sucking too hard, taking too much in at once. He's his twisted star when he manages to coo him into submission, cheek nestling against the back of his hand like that of a kitten.

It's not like there haven't been boys before him. He's always going to have a corner in Kozmotis' heart, though. All of him. But what will remain forever, if not longer than that, is his twisted little star.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing he notices when he enters the house, is that it's empty. It's big, yes, but the furniture looks as though someone placed it there carelessly. Only the most necessary elements, an expensive ebony floor. It's summer and when he steps into the hall a cool breeze hits him. The building is old, statuesque with a certain flair of character that if Kozmotis had to estimate it, he'd guess it was built in the Victorian era, but there are so many modern elements to it, placed with the care of a loving architect. It was exactly the sort of home he'd anticipate a call to tutor a straight-A student, however that was not the reason he was here.

The first thing he notices when he enters the house, is that it's empty. It's big, yes, but the furniture looks as though someone placed it there carelessly. Only the most necessary elements, an expensive ebony floor. It's summer and when he steps into the hall a cool breeze hits him. The building is old, statuesque with a certain flair of character that if Kozmotis had to estimate it, he'd guess it was built in the Victorian era, but there are so many modern elements to it, placed with the care of a loving architect. It was exactly the sort of home he'd anticipate a call to tutor a straight-A student, however that was not the reason he was here.

He's probably taught worse teens in worse environments and the man that greets him is most certainly just an overreacting father.

“Ah, Mr. Pitchiner. It's nice to meet you.” The man has got brown hair, wears a well trimmed beard and a suit that he's sure is expensive. “Do you need a refreshment?” His accent is heavy, Russian maybe, and the man extends a hand for him to shake. Kozmotis takes it after swiping his own off on his jeans, his palms still slightly sweaty from the heat outside.

“Mr. Norman.” he replies politely, “That's really not necessary, thank you. I'm here for maths.”

It's a joke, but it comes across a little dry, spoken too pointedly to be taken as such, so his opposite simply gestures upstairs, some of the warmth vanishing from his voice. “My son is upstairs.”

“I'm sure we will be having fun.” he says, trying to make up for his failed attempt at being humorous earlier. It's not that he's nervous-- he has dealt with the worst kind of teenagers. It's that he really wants this job. His payment is extraordinary. His client is either very desperate or doesn't know what kind of wage private teachers usually get.

“I have a good feeling about you.” Mr. Norman replies, patting his back so hard Kozmotis is painfully reminded that this was his cue to be moving and almost stumbles forward. He's taking some stairs before turning again to see his client wave encouragingly. “The second room to the right. It's surely better to introduce yourself.”

Pitchiner wonders why that is, but nods in response and keeps walking, finding the right door with ease. He knocks, his knuckles brushing over the heavy ebony. He gets no reply, so he knocks again, this time a little harder. When he turns to check back on Mr. Norman and what he's supposed to do, the man has disappeared into his house. He doesn't have much of a choice but to enter the room without permission.

The ceiling of the room is high, stucco adorning it in the corners. In the very opposition to that, there are band posters clattered all over the walls, some of them even having been drawn on with permanent marker. And right underneath a big writing that reads that's one big son of a bitch lounges his new project. He can't really see him at first, though, the view is blocked by a hip-high shelf. But there's his foot, swinging back and forth to a rhythm he can't hear. He's wearing pink sneaker socks, so Kozmotis catches a glimpse of his pale, bony ankle.

What kind of boy that age wears pink socks with a big white cat face on them? The teacher clears his throat, but the teen still doesn't react. He has to walk all through the room, past a desk that has items and drawings clattered all over them and tower over the shelf to see who he's dealing with. When he stands there, his briefcase pinned under his arm, an annoyed expression on his face, he needs a moment to take the image in.

He's carelessly wearing checkered boxer shorts and a tight black shirt, cut off at the sleeves. His hair is bleached so blond that it looks white. The kid is currently gnawing at a pencil and wearing head phones, still swinging his foot to the music.

What in god's name is he supposed to do now, standing there like an idiot, staring at his calves and thighs, the curve of his back and the constant movement of his leg?  
Grumpily, without giving another sort of warning, he picks up a crumbled piece of paper from the shelf in front of him and throws it at the boy's head. He turns, eyes wide like those of a deer in the headlights and he sits up in a flash, slamming the notebook he's been scribbling into shot.

“What the hell?!” he blurts out and tugs a blanket over his lap, the black oversized tee slipping over his shoulder. He rips his headphones off and Kozmotis can hear them clatter to the floor on the other side of the single bed. “You're--” He gestures, his finger fulfilling an exaggerated curve in the air before it directly points at the tall, dark-haired man in front of him.

“Your private teacher.”

“I was gonna go with total creep, but yeah.” he mumbles, dark brows knitting stubbornly as he fishes for his jeans without taking his eyes off the stranger.  
Kozmotis straightens up, slowly overcoming the shock of the overall encounter. He couldn't even deny that he had been staring. “Your father didn't tell you that I was coming?”  
“He sure as hell didn't, or I'd be over the hills and far away.”

“I see.” That kid definitely said 'hell' a lot. “But now that I'm here and you are here, why don't we do a little maths?”

There's a pause in which the teen rolls onto his back, slides the worn out jeans over his legs and the teacher is staring at the bulge in his pants before noticing the gap right over his thigh, lazily flicked up with safety pins. He's looking at him from the corner of ice blue eyes, a smirk slowly creeping over his features. “Are you hitting on me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Can't tell me you haven't been admiring the view.”

He really couldn't, but he dutifully turns his gaze away, moves towards the teen's desk to pick up all the sheets of papers and piles them up carefully. They are drawings of what looks like zombie-mermaids, scary elves and finally a very worrisome depiction of the boogeyman under a child's bed, laughing with shark teeth and extending a shadowy claw towards his victim. He thinks about commenting on that but decides otherwise and simply puts them aside, before sorting trash from things that are still useful and throwing the clutter into the trash can next to the table.

“Um, sorry Mister-I-stare-at-you-in-your-Underpants, what are you doing?”

“It's Pitchiner.” he replies calmly and walks across the room to remove a pile of flashy clothing from a chair to pick it up, too, and put it next to the chair that has already been standing in front of the desk. “And I'm going to explain statistics to you in a moment.”

“Weird ass name.” the kid replies, but sounds a little more peaceful than before, getting up from his bed and stretching his arms over his head like a tired kitten.

Kozmotis slides into the chair he just got and taps the sitting surface of the other one. “On we go.”

“Yeah, I don't think so. I've got things to do that are a little fun.” He shrugs, reaching for the hoodie folded over the chair he's supposed to sit down on.

The older man doesn't turn around, but softly slaps the back of the teen's hand, making him pull it back and give a noise of complaint. “Statistics are more than a little fun. And I'm not going to go anywhere until you've sat down next to me.”

The kid's face lights up with the imagination of the tall, caramel-skinned man sitting there for days while he spends his time over at Jamie's place, but there's something about the seriousness of his voice that is--- challenging. So he sits down, wanting to play a game of how quick he could break him. “Fine.”

“You haven't been telling me your name yet.” Kozmotis says, still calm, his eyes flickering over to the kid to see him grin back into his face.

“It's Jack. Jack Frost.”

The teacher wrinkles his nose ever so slightly and his long, slender fingers brush over the drawing on top of the sheets he put in the outer corner of the desk. “And I'm the boogeyman.”

This is when Jack laughs. This is when his eyes lighten up with the power of an entire city by night, a bubbly sound escapes him and his head lolls forward, the grin on his face growing wider and more real as he straightens up again, biting down on the tip of his index finger. And this is when Kozmotis turns away so he doesn't have to look at him anymore, knowing that he has fallen for him.

 

It's exhausting to work with the kid. Each time he explains something that is longer than two sentences he can see him drifting off into daydreams, twirling his pencil and staring at the notes in front of him without actually looking at him. Kozmotis can see where his father is coming from. With an attitude like that, he'd never have good grades.

“Another way to think of the quartiles is this: The first quartile is the median of the numbers located below the median; the third quartile is the median of the numbers above the median. This may sound confusing, but it is easy to understand when--” Kozmotis stops mid-sentence to realize that Jack is staring through the table again. “--do you want a good morning coffee, Jack?”

At the mention of his name, the boy's head perks up and there's a slight panic in his eyes that quickly settles, trained in keeping his cool. “The result's 42.”

Kozmotis narrows his eyes. “That's a random number.”

“It's not, I swear! Clearly the medium has rose by a cartel, so...” He's puckering his lips stubbornly, tapping the wrong end of his pencil to the paper. “...42.”

“You haven't been listening to me at all.”

The teen runs a lazy hand through his hair so it's combed back, standing into all kinds of directions before it flops forward again. “I did.” he argues, and damn, he's trying to flirt him into believing him, looking up at his teacher from below, a wicked smirk curling around his lips all of a sudden.

The kid's mood swings are like a roller coaster. Kozmotis can never pin point a moment he's in a concrete spirit before he swaps to the next one. After he ignored his attempt to get him flustered {which might have actually worked, the teacher's lips thinning into a tight line} he even seems attentive for a moment, but then he's scribbling something onto the margin of his sheet.

_Fuck me._

It stands there in gray scribble and he works the tip of his pencil over it again, the nail of his index finger almost touching the paper. Kozmotis raises a brow, but simply tries to continue the lesson. He doesn't allow himself to look back at the scribble after that, sternly going through what he planned to do today. “And the numbers below the median, 11 12 13 14 14, have a median of 13. So, the first quartile is---?” He pauses, doubting that Jack can actually answer him.

He's gnawing at his pencil again, dark brows drawn together in what is either real or feigned concentration. Kozmotis can never tell with him.

“Thrmtyn.” the teen mumbles, before pulling the pencil out of his mouth. “Thirteen.”

It's a surprise, really. The teacher turns, amber eyes warming up ever so slightly when they're set on the boy, who is now looking at him seriously, tense almost, waiting for his confirmation. “Good.”

The kid looks bewildered for a moment and there is something about his expression and overall attitude that changes. His shoulders aren't hanging lazily, the foot below the table stops swinging constantly. Jack's voice, seemingly surprised of himself or by whatever that is bothering him, raises by a pitch. “Yeah. Cool. And now?”

“We're done for today.” Kozmotis replies calmly, takes his book to close it and pack up again, briefcase on his lap.

“Thank god!” the boy exclaims a moment too late and pushes himself off the desk, his chair rolling backwards a little, swirling around so he's got a good view on Kozmotis. “And just for the record, I didn't have fun. Fun's something else. Fun is music. Fun is art. Fun definitely isn't maths.”

The teacher gets up, briefcase already under his arm. “I'll be back.”

No matter how few fun he had, Jack's eyes lighten up at that, his customary smirk back on his face. “When?” he asks casually, innocently cocking his head. He's playing an act, Kozmotis knows it.

“I won't tell you. You said it yourself: You'd be over the hills and far away.” Obviously he had the right suspicion, because now the kid is sulking.

“Alright then. But the next time you might wanna knock, creeper.”

Kozmotis wants to point out that he has very well knocked, but gives up on it, flattening out his blazer jacket. “I'll see you, Jack.” The teen doesn't seem to want to get up and shake his hand, so he turns to leave, closing the door behind him with a sigh Jack won't hear.

This will definitely be a lot of work.

Jack's dad isn't to be seen anywhere either, so he heads for the main door on his own, already having his fingers around the doorhandle when he hears the soft pad of socked feet behind him, quickening up to catch him. And there is the teen, hurrying down the stairs and towards Kozmotis, slithering towards him before he comes to halt like an ice skater on the polished floor, holding out a sheet of paper. “You forgot something, sir.”

It's the first time he's addressing him with a little respect, so he takes the folded paper, nodding approvingly. “Thank you, Jack. Have a nice evening.” The teen nods with a flashing grin and he can see him wink just before he's closing the door behind him. 

On the way to his car he unfolds the paper, having to stop briefly in front of it when his eyes processed what he's seeing.

It's the paper the kid has been writing on during their lesson. He's circled the fuck me with a pink highlighter and has drawn arrows to point at it. There's no other note accompanying it, but it's enough to make Kozmotis crumble the paper in his fist, his face flushed when he slides into the driver's seat, slamming the door a little too loudly.

Inside, Jack can hear the smash of the car's door up to his room and it sends a triumphant grin over his face. He jams his fist in the air and falls backwards, cushioned by his bed. He's staring at the ceiling and goes over the details of today. He might have been lured into actually doing some maths at the side, but he's so going to crush that peacocky old man. He's not really finding him attractive at all. He pops his headphones back in, stretches out like a starfish and thinks about all the ways he could do him on his mattress. Not attractive at all.

The teacher, on the other hand, stops at another client's place. It's a girl and he has already visited her a few times. Teaching feels good for a moment. Her understanding of the topic has improved by a lot and he's certain she won't need him anymore soon. He's forced to have dinner with the girl's family and talk about her results – luckily he doesn't have to lie when it comes down to them. After that he drives home, finding the crumbled sheet of paper in the pocket of his jacket. He throws it away together with a bubble gum wrapper and loosens his tie up to drop himself on his couch and turn the television on. It's like it's haunting, him, though. Now that he doesn't have an actual task to face, the note keeps reappearing in his mind. The kid's ankle, swinging through the air. _Fuck me._ The curve of his back, thighs pale but smooth. _Fuck me._ The way his teeth sink into his fingertip, the pad of it causing a dent in the bow of his bottom lip. _Fuck me._ The pencil in his mouth, sucked at for a moment before being released with a soundless 'pop'. _Fuck me._ Kozmotis looks at the Television screen, but also right through it, feeling his skin prickle uncomfortably hot. You forgot something, sir. _Fuck me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first multi-chaptered work I'm publishing anywhere since... years? And also the first work for this fandom. I'd be happy about any kind of feedback so I know whether it tickles your fancy! It's almost obvious where the next chapter will be going...
> 
> Beta'd by this lovely lady: [TheGoldenAppleOfAsgard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoldenAppleofAsgard/pseuds/TheGoldenAppleofAsgard)


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jamie, I'm gonna die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh my, thank you for all of your feedback and kudos. It really keeps me going! 
> 
> This chapter has been beta'd by [TheGoldenAppleofAsgard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoldenAppleofAsgard/pseuds/TheGoldenAppleofAsgard) again and I want to thank her for being my little porn muse and being a hell of a good comrade.
> 
> AND the first chapter has gotten [fanart](http://frosty-butt.tumblr.com/post/62087057946/promised-my-woman-i-would-draw-her-fanfic-as-a) already! Go check it out. M'love managed to capture their attitudes perfectly.

“Jamie, I'm gonna die.”

“August is going to be over soon. Why don't you just enjoy the summer?”

Jack is seeing his friend upside down, legs up on the backrest of the couch, his head resting on the floor in what looks like a very uncomfortable angle. Jamie is sitting on the floor, legs crossed, his laptop on the floor in front of him.

“That ain't what I'm talking about.” Jack complains, tugging at the other boy's hood. “Moon to Jamie. Can you hear me? Why do you _never_ listen?”

Jamie rolls his eyes, but turns to face his friend. “Because you _never_ stop talking!”

Jamie is the only one who's allowed to say things like that to Jack. Jamie is the only one that stayed after everything that happened. But still, the white haired boy acts offended and slides to the floor to sit up and grab his own laptop. “It's like the boogeyman vanished off the face of the earth.” he mumbles, finger tapping the touch pad of his notebook, scrolling endlessly past pictures of pizza, macaroni and bacon because one of his friends just started a food spam.

“Sweeter dreams for the children.” the brunette replies with a smirk, before closing his lap top to signify that he's going to pay attention to Jack now. “Look, it's been a week. Which means that he's probably going to see you on a seven day basis. Which means that if he's going to stop by again, it's gonna be today, or tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow. And why do you even care? A week ago you posted that you 'hate the guy lol going to crush him'.”

Jack glares, before getting up to pace the room, gesturing wildly. “FYI, that's not how I talk online.” Jamie's hands twitch in a way that the other teen knows to mean that he's about to re-open his laptop to prove him otherwise, so he gestures again. “And it's not that I _care_. It's that my plan doesn't work. I told him to fuck me and he hasn't shown up and ripped the clothes off my body.” He pauses, raising both his hands in a finishing motion. “Yet.”

“Wait you did what?” Jamie's dark brown eyes widen and he's not even bothering to hide the fact that he's worrying for his best friend's sanity.

“Yeah well, wrote it on a note and handed it to him before he left.”

“And you still wonder why he hasn't shown up yet? Forget it, Jack, he's already given up. And by the way, I'm not sure if you really want to crush him, or fuck him.”  
“I want to crush him. And he'd be fucking me, you never listen when I—”

“Anyhow, buddy, you totally overstepped your boundaries. He quit you. I bet your dad had to get a new teacher, bu-- what's his name? I'm not gonna call him the boogeyman, that's just creepy-- told them not to go near you because you're a dangerous manwhore.”

Jack's mouth snaps open for an exaggerated inhale, but before he can actually say anything, Jamie chimes in again: “Gay gasp.” Which has the other teen break out in a breathy fit of laughter, even though the joke was on his expense.

 

Kozmotis can't even attempt to describe how much he hates the class of grown up business men he has to teach right now. It's hot, his white undershirt is clinging to his body and the row of black suited people isn't much better off. It's the kind of lesson that everybody who is present just wants to be over, including the teacher himself.

“So the market equilibrium for this case would be--- ?” he asks, having almost laid the answer out for everyone so he can finally declare class finished.

“96.8 degrees and too hot to think, mate. Let it rest.”

Pitchiner wants to choke the man with his muttonchops, so his fingers twitch dangerously before he's grabbing the chalkboard pointer again. “Wrong.” he says pointedly, glaring at the round of people. The tip of his pointer harshly lands on the correct number. “The market equilibrium isn't measured in degrees.”

“And working out helps to lose some of that tension. Really, buddy, we all just want to go home.”

Kozmotis lips thin into a tight line, brows narrowing angrily. This is not the kind of day he feels like dealing with an obnoxious, arrogant dickhead from down under. “And you're all be going home if one of you tells me the correct answer.”

If anyone would dare to say '42', he's going to explode. The Australian leans back with a smug, crooked smile on his face and the other, tired men seem to feel compelled to take his side. So the freelance teacher waits, grimly staring through all of them until one of them breaks and reads out what's already on the board. It's enough for Kozmotis for now, though, so he finishes the lesson, watching them stream out of the room like high school students.

He looks worn out when he's washing the chalk of the board until he can see himself in it. He's taking it slow on purpose today, knowing what the next point in his agenda is.  
It's Jack.

By now he has decided that the kid is just messing with him. He's gone over the coincidence in his head often times enough to tell himself that. He's gone over the coincidence in the shower, too. Several times. Kozmotis feels even hotter when he thinks about that, but swallows the thought down. He hasn't talked to anyone about it. Of course he didn't. It could cost him his job.

So why is he driving back to the bratty teen's place? For the money, of course.

 

By the time Kozmotis arrives at the house – almost mansion – it's half past six. When he rings the doorbell this time, it's Jack who opens the door for him. He's wearing a hoodie and his boxers again, feet clothed in a different colored pair of socks. Holding a piece of pizza in his hand, he just leaves the door open without looking at him, chewing away.  
“If this is about the bag of skittles you forgot, sorry, all mine.” he exclaims around a mouthful of pizza and marches off to somewhere. The teacher wrinkles his nose. If the kid wants him to stop to sneak up on him, he might want to act a little less careless.

“Too bad. I was looking forward to my skittles.” he drawls loudly, making Jack's shoulder's twitch in surprise, before he turns to pop the last piece of pizza into his mouth.  
He looks obscene with his cheeks puffed out like that, but he was quick to swallow it. “Creeper.” he breathes and his change in attitude and posture brings that uncomfortable bristle back over his skin. He's looking at him through black lashes, leading his finger to his mouth. There's grease and cheese from the pizza all over it and the teen doesn't hesitate before he dips it past his lips, sucking at the tip of it. Kozmotis just stands there, staring. Jack is shoving the finger all the way in before pulling it out to work his tongue over the other one.

The teacher wants to remark that he didn't ask for a presentation of his non-existent gag reflex, but that'd mean stooping to the kid's level. Kozmotis had a hard day. He straightens up and simply walks past Jack, heading upstairs. “When you've washed your hands, meet me in your room.”

The teen obviously isn't satisfied with where this is going at all, but he complies after a moment, grumbling something to himself.

When he enters the room, his private teacher has cleaned his desk up again. Jack isn't sure whether the sight aggravates or pleases him. It's his stuff. It's his matter to decide which trash of his he wants to be actually in the trash and what of it is supposed to be on his desk. But Mr. Pitchiner has removed his blazer jacket, wearing an old fashioned vest underneath it. His shoulder to waist ratio isn't fair, he thinks as he parades past him to grab his jeans, bending forward on purpose. Is he looking? He's so looking. His boxer shorts are tight when he's stretching himself like that.

Kozmotis swallows and turns back to his notes, sorting them to determine where they last stopped. “How is school going?” he asks, sounding casual.  
“ 'm pretty good at biology.” Jack replies with a grin, sliding into the chair that was meant for him and folding his arms behind his neck, lounging there as if he's not actually intending to study.

“Good to hear.” the teacher replies, actually oblivious to the teen's flirting, and scans the paper he's holding for the first task. “Here. We found the median value the next time. This time, we'll be concentrating on the mode value.”

There is something about the older man that makes Jack bite back what he was about to say and actually look at the example Mr. Pitchiner is tapping his pen on. He seems different this time, and when he peers up into his face, he can determine it easily. Tired. Stressed. It's how his dad looks each time he thinks Jack is not watching him. “Uh-hu.”  
Kozmotis averts his gaze from the paper, too, just to look up and realize that the boy is looking into his face. “Down here, Jack.” he says calmly and the teen focuses on the task. “Look at these numbers. What occurs to you?”

“They're... random numbers?” he guesses with a shrug, realizing that he had actually intended not to care about maths and drive the man insane. “And 42 isn't one of them, so, no idea what the answer is.”

The teacher sighs. “What should occur to you is that they're not in order. 3, 7, 5, 13, 20, 23, 39, 23, 40, 23, 14, 12, 56, 23, 29. Arrange them for me, Jack, lowest to highest.”  
Maybe that something about that man is how he says his name. He says it as if he's knowing him. He says it as if he has the right to tell him what to do. He says it with determination and softness at once. And damn, his satin voice isn't fair either. So the teen quietly does as he's told. It's not that hard after all and he doesn't want to seem stupid.

Once he has scribbled the order down on his own notepad, he reads it out to the teacher: “3, 5, 7, 12, 13, 14,...20,23, 23, 23... why are there so many 23s there's something wrong here, 23, 29, 39, 40, 56.”

“The mode is the number that appears the most often. Just remember that. Now that you've arranged them correctly, the mode value is showing itself to you.”

“It's 23.”

“Good.” Every time he praises the kid, his attitude changes a little. The ice blue eyes soften. His shoulders relax. He's pleased.

“Ain't that hard.” he mumbles, pouting slightly. “I'm not stupid, you know.”

“I know that, Jack.”

Stop saying my name, the teen thinks, and stubbornly begins to circle the 23s on his sheet, noting down 'mode = most'. If Jamie could see him right now he'd laugh at him. He didn't want to do maths, he wanted to make this guy regret ever stepping through the door of his room and forcing him to lay his hands on school work after school. But Kozmotis gives him another example and for some reason he wants to hear his praise again, hear that he's got something, that he's not stupid, that he's _good_.

“I hate maths.”

“Maths hates you just as much as you hate it.” The teacher replies smoothly, smiling somewhat crookedly and creepily. His teeth are really white, and probably really sharp. Jack decided to hate his perfect teeth, too. “Jack? 1, 3, 3, 3, 4, 4, 6, 6, 6, 9. What occurs to you about that row of numbers?”

“There's a 69 in it.” There's a smirk on the kid's face, eyes glowing brighter, all though they're halfway covered by his lashes. He has this disturbing way of forcing eye contact, even when it isn't really necessary. Don't look at him. Kozmotis tells himself, but it's too late. _Fuck me._

The teacher's face heats up ever so slightly. “There isn't. Not really. What else?”

“I don't know. They're in order already.”

“Don't say you don't know when there's something you do know.”

“Don't tell me what to do.”

“Jack.”

“Ugh, fine. The 3 and 6 are there three times. I dunno what the mode is, because they both appear more often.”

“Oh, you can. There are two modes: at 3 and 6.” Pitchiner pauses, making sure he has the kid's attention. “Having two modes is called 'bimodal'.”

“Are you bimodal?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Which way do you swing?”

“That's not a matter of observation for today.”

“You're gay, aren't you?”

“Ah, I'm not just gay. I'm _ecstatic_ to have the chance to teach someone as well-behaved as you are.”

The teen can't manage to steer the conversation into the direction he wants it to go and his voice drips with sarcasm. He looks even more tired now. No pity. Jack tries to tell himself, but no. He's sworn he'd crush the guy. “You mean well-looking.” he purrs, quietly, his chair having rolled a little closer to the teacher's chair than it was supposed to stand.

“Jack, concentrate.” he says firmly and taps his finger onto another example in his text book. “Find the mode value in this example. Go.”

It's really not hard and Jack learns about multimodes in the next few tasks, the whole thing getting more and more complex, but also staying weirdly easy. In maths lessons at school he never has an overall grasp of the topics-- but right now it's going surprisingly well. And each time Mr. Pitchiner tells him he's doing good, he feels more and more of his resistance wash away.

This is not how he planned the whole thing.

So he waits for the lesson to be finished to add harsher measurements to his procedure. “You look tense.” he says, with a sly smile, still as close as before. He's so close he can smell the man's aftershave. But Pitchiner puts a spoke in his wheels by pushing himself backwards, sitting further away from the table now, about to get up.

“You look really tense, sir.” he repeats and gets up, feigning a yawn.

Kozmotis is skeptical, but he can't get up with the kid in his way, so his amber eyes just follow his movements attentively. But before he can raise his voice, he feels the teens weight lower onto his lap. He's surprised and close to violently pushing him off himself. Jack's hands come to rest on his shoulders, though, their faces so close he can smell pizza when the teen exhales. His thumb is pressing circles into the wrong sides of his shoulders, five fingers grabbing and massaging the muscle on his back. “Get off me.” he replies flatly, but then the teen begins to move according to the circles, hips raising and lowering themselves, their crotches brushing.

Jack acts like he doesn't know what he's doing. “What?” he asks innocently, “I got it all right. I never get it right. And you clearly got a back ache.” His voice is soft, breathy, and it chases a shiver down Kozmotis spine, because there's an underlying message to it.

The kid continues to rock back and forth and the teacher is getting hard, he knows he is. And it's embarrassing, if not to say painful. “Jack.”

The sound of his name makes Jack stop for a moment, but it's the moment he can feel the teacher's boner pressing into his clothed ass. “It's alright.” the kid mumbles, lowering his body onto the hardness beneath him. Really, it's not like he's ridden all kinds of old men's crotches before. In fact, this is the first big cock he's sitting on. That doesn't make him stop, though. It's thrilling, makes him feel too hot for the hoodie he is wearing. “I know I'm dashing.” The teen's voice is slightly shaky, but it comes from somewhere low in his throat he didn't know existed.

He forgot that he was giving a massage here, so he continues the movements of his hands, sliding his palms over the man's shoulder blades and back up, fingers sinking into their muscles on their way, kneading. Kozmotis is still tense, his arousal beginning to be painful. He still doesn't want to give in, but has subconsciously gotten a hold of the boy's hips.

His long fingers are just lying there, but they are enough to make Jack notice just how much he wants to be touched. He rocks down, feeling his own desire becoming more and more prominent, making him feel dizzy with want. He peers down at the teacher, eyes half-lidded, mouth having fallen open as if he was about to make another snappy remark and forgot what he wanted to say.

The sight drives Kozmotis crazy and he swallows thickly, unable to just shove the teen off him and have it over with. Slowly, his nails dig deeper into the thick fabric of Jack's jeans, tugging him closer, leading the way. “If _that's_ what you're attempting--” he murmurs, amber eyes flickering upwards to be locked with dazed ice blue. “--at least do it properly.”

He has a tight grip on the kid's hips now, thumbs pressing hard into the soft pad of skin and flesh right above his hip bones. The intensified touch makes Jack give a spoiled little noise and he spasms, but can't move being fixated by his teacher's grasp like that. The whole thing becomes more real that moment. He has him right where he wanted him-- so why doesn't Jack feel like he'd won?

Finally, the older man bucks up against him and he trembles, his jeans so tight that it hurts. “Fuck--” he breathes, squeezes his eyes shut and suddenly he can hear a cocky click of tongue.

“No swearing.” Mr. Pitchiner changed from what appeared to be an awkward virgin old man to a devious creature in the shortest of time and when he dares to open his eyes again, he's smirking. He freaking knows it hurts. Jack thinks, trying to shift, but to no success. He's dependent on what his teacher does, how he moves, how hard he's grinding up against him. His usual routine would have been to fight back and taunt him in return, but damn he needs it. He thinks that if he tries too hard to have it the way he wants, game over.

“What d'you want me to do?” he asks, not over-thinking the words before they pour out of his mouth, trembling when he's being bucked up against mid-sentence. The teacher doesn't reply, just hums quietly, and his hands move to open his fly. It would have been Jack's chance to free himself and do something on his own accord, aching with want, but he's too fascinated by it all to react.

And suddenly, firm hands grasp his hip again and Kozmotis almost violently yanks him closer, the snap of his hips much harder than before. Jack gasps. “F-fuck this. I got needs too, y'know?” but he's only rewarded by ignorance. 

“No swearing.” the teacher repeats quietly, but his voice is breathy, too, hot puffs of air brushing against the teen's neck. The older man is radiating heat. And suddenly Jack is sure that he's close. So he just complies, meeting the movement of Kozmotis' hips, pressing down against him smoothly, with an ease as if he wasn't hurting with desire. “Now that's a good boy.”

The words shake something in Jack's core up and his head lolls forward, chin dropping to come to rest on his teacher's shoulder, eyes closed. Kozmotis' hot breath is flickering against the shell of his ear now, making him whimper quietly. He wants to hear them again.

His hips are still in a vice grip, being moved according to the older man's favor. When he's tipped over the edge, his breathing becomes quicker and he seems to be pressing even closer, but the hard buck of his hips suddenly ceases, stilling perfectly. Not a single word. “Y'know, I--” the boy starts and Kozmotis lets go of him.

Downstairs, they can hear a door closing. Kozmotis winces and shoves Jack off him, who tumbles backwards and onto his bed, looking thoroughly distressed. “I have a raging boner!” he hisses, but his teacher just fumbles for tissues to try and clean himself as quickly as possible. “And he ain't never coming upstairs anyways! He just goes straight into the living room!”

But the risk is too big. Kozmotis doesn't even feel obliged to comment and grabs his things to leave. He's almost out of the door when he gives the kid a last glance.

 

“I'll see you next week.”


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I'm just gonna go leave my bag at my place, have a shower, and then I'll be over.” Jamie explains with a yawn, stretching with his arms over his head. Jack is so used to his presence and how they work that he wouldn't even have had to hear it, but he nods with a tired grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello ladies and gentlewomen!! (No offense if you're a guy reading this, I just really like saying that, we're all cool here.) I'm pretty glad I got a few subscribers by now. And I have to thank my beta-reader for putting up with me again. Thank you, [Lunabear.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoldenAppleofAsgard)News are... none, but there is a fanmix for that story now. Cool, heh? You can listen to it [here](https://8tracks.com/humblingxriver/twisted-little-star).

“I'm just gonna go leave my bag at my place, have a shower, and then I'll be over.” Jamie explains with a yawn, stretching with his arms over his head. Jack is so used to his presence and how they work that he wouldn't even have had to hear it, but he nods with a tired grin.

“Aye.”

It's empty inside anyways, so he just tosses his own backpack into the closest corner and kicks his combat boots, their laces loose anyways, off his feet. The floor in the entrance hall is made of marble and the stairs up to his room look freaking royal. Not that he cares-- he's pissed off by it, sometimes, thinks that he'd be happier in a three room apartment with his dad. With less corners to disappear into. So he'd feel less like he'd be living there on his own.

But then he remembers that this was what his mom carefully planned out, sketching each and every detail of the hallway, of the living room, the brocade on the ceiling, looking like angel wings if you squinted. He remembers her slender fingers and how soft they always were and that it were those fingers that brought all of this to paper so that they could live there together. Mom, Dad... his sister.

The teen tosses the thought aside, though, being practiced in repressing memories when he needs to by now. He marches into the kitchen and hopes to find a meal that he just has to heat up for once. His dad never cooks. There's a note and twenty dollars. The note just says: Your meal.

Jack huffs (as if he was going to munch down a twenty dollar note) and fishes for the pen to scribble 'thanks dad, was a little dry though. Sarcasticlap for your cooking.' underneath it with an angry motion, but decides for the better and just throws the piece of paper away.

He's about to order some pizza, the phone already on his ear, when the doorbell rings and he lazily makes his way towards the entrance. When he opens it, he's not prepared to greet his private teacher at all. Their last meeting had been so sexually frustrating that he didn't even tell Jamie the whole story, just grumpy snippets of it. The truth was, even though he pretended to be the biggest seducer on the whole wide planet, that he had no idea what the fuck was supposed to come next.

He knew that Mr. Pitchiner wanted him, though. And that was satisfying enough to conjure up a crooked grin as he swings the door open.

His teacher is wearing a brown jacket that looks more boring than a pencil exhibition. “Hey there.” The teen purrs, just to see Kozmotis frown at him, nose wrinkling in a way that he had only ever seen his grumpy teacher's remarkable nose do.

“Hello, Jack.”

The satin sound of his voice reminds Jack why exactly he had been left with a raging boner the last time they met and his grin widens, hip sticking out in an inviting angle. He's still not making enough room for the teacher to enter. “Oh boy did I have to find something to carry my desire for maths out on after you left last week.” he adds cheekily, ice blue hues sparkling.

“About that--” Kozmotis starts, but Jack doesn't let him finish and moves aside, gesturing towards the hall.

“Come on in, grumpy cat! I was just about to order some food. You want some? Either my dad thinks a pizza goes twenty bucks, or he just pays for my babe in advance. Anyhow, this round of pizza could include you.” He cocks his head, looking smug. “My treat.”

Jack isn't sure whether Mr. Pitchiner frowns more because he knows who the grumpy cat is, or because he accidentally slipped the stupid nickname he had for Jamie. Half of the school, including his sister Sophie, thought they were dating ever since they went to prom together half a year ago. Of course the true reason had been that no one was as fabulous they were, so why should they waste time being not double-fabulous and invite boring chicks out?

“No thank you.” His teacher replies. “I've already eaten. And my time here is limited.” His glasses slipped off his nose, so he shoves them back up. There is still a spark to his eyes that Jack can't quite place. And he didn't even ask him who his 'babe' was, so Jack ticks it off as simple disinterest in his life. Seemingly, all Mr. Pitchiner cares for is his butt.

And Jack is pretty fine with that, as long as it grants him his undivided attention.

“So you're just fine with your students starving as long as they do maths as they do?” he asks cheekily, making sure to sway his hips prettily as he takes the stairs up to his room. Regardless of the fact that Mr. Pitchiner was still busy taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over a coat hanger. “Waiting upstairs, old man!”

The thought of having his teacher back inside of his room makes Jack's skin bristle with a mixture of uncomfortable heat, embarrassment and anticipation. The heat is worse than everything else, though, so Jack unzips his hoodie jacket and throws it on top of his bed. Last time he had been here with the teacher, he managed to get him off. It couldn't be so hard to get to the next step, right?

But when Mr. Pitchiner enters, he's even colder than usually. He's always been a little uptight, but this is worse. This is so much worse. His golden eyes seem paler, hell, even his face does. And when he speaks his voice is so low and carries so much authority that Jack can't do anything but do as he says.

“Open your exercise book on page 94.” Jack silently does what he's told and when his teacher points his long, slender fingers at a text task that makes the teen squint his eyes in annoyance at the mass of letters (maths was supposed to be about numbers, not letters, right?) he still obliges and takes down notes, carefully trying to put the numbers and facts together.

“No, you have to find the minimum and maximum. Read more carefully, Jack. You'll have to translate in terms of z-scores first.”

His voice is so calm. He's so different from the man he was giving a lap dance the last time-- or is he? Was Jack really looking back then? Or was there just a movie playing in his mind and his teacher had been like that forever? There is something wrong with the way he says his name, too, and that's what unsettles the teen the most.

“Sir?” he asks, remembering that the last time he used that title Mr. Pitchiner seemed to like it. And even though he hated the man and just planned on screwing his life over, he wanted him to behave normally again. In the way he came to hate him, not like he was an emotionless C3PO type. But just when his teacher calmly looks back at him, the doorbell rings.

Oh shit. When his teacher stood in front of him, he instantly and completely forgot Jamie. The coincidence makes the teen think of a plan, though, and he suddenly cracks a smile, grinning up at the older male with glistening ice blue. “My babe.” he coos and pushes himself off the desk and just leaves Mr. Pitchiner there.

When Jack gets downstairs and rips the door open with a wild expression in his eyes, the freshly showered Jamie seems to immediately notice that something is wrong.

“Which pills did you pop? You look insane.” Jamie mumbles and takes a step backwards.

“Just play along.” Jack breathes. “Please play along.”

Before the obviously mildly freaked out Jamie can say another word, the sides of his face are grabbed and a kiss is planted on his face, their lips crashing onto each other with a force that makes Jack's teeth ache. It wouldn't be true to say that he never kissed Jamie, but most of the incidents involved alcohol and dim light.

In this moment, everything is real. He can feel that Jamie's hair is still wet where strands of it tickle his hands. He can taste Coca Cola on his tongue and each and every exhale his best friend makes is directed right into his mouth. Jack stumbles closer, his thumbs beginning to brush gently across Jamie's cheeks as he distances himself for a moment to catch some air and dive back in, his tongue pushing past Jamie's lips with ease this time. They keep kissing for a while and it's a messy roll of tongues tinted with occasional muffled moans out of their mouths. It has to be a good show after all, so Jack moves his hips and their groins brush when he nibbles at Jamie's tongue before giving it a good, hard suck.

He distances himself. Jamie stares at him, caramel eyes full of confusion and oh yeah – arousal.

“What the hell was that?”

Jack realizes that he's been staring at him, taking in the flush of his cheeks. Definitely arousal. “The boogeyman is upstairs.” he explains in a breath and cocks his head to sheepishly smile at his friend. “You alright there?”

“If I'm-- You know what? Fuck you.” His friend takes a step away from him, brows furrowing in irritation.

Jack should feel bad about it, but the first thing he does is hoping that Jamie's behavior isn't visible upstairs where his teacher should be watching from. If he's watching. He can't turn and check, though, or his act might blow up after all. “Every night.” Jack confirms, hoping that he can brush it off as a joke, but it doesn't work. Jamie just looks angrier.

“I'll see you in school.” With that, he walks off.

Jack finally dares to turn and look upstairs and he can see it from afar – Mr. Pitchiner's face. His tanned skin, his sharp eyes. They're watching him. He shrugs and waves before going back inside, his heart thundering in his chest. His plan worked out. It has to have worked out. He prays silently and takes two stairs at once as he hurries back into his room.

When he arrives, his teacher is still standing at the window, his arms crossed.

“Come here.” Oh, that satin voice. A shiver runs down his spine and makes the hair in the back of his neck stand up at how the older male voiced his order. His words are almost tangible. The tension in the room is, too. Jack takes slow steps towards him, ice blue eyes boldly locked with Mr. Pitchiner's molten amber hues.

He comes to a stand in front of him and tries to grin, but it doesn't work with how intensely his teacher his still looking back at him.

“So that's what you are?” he asks, sounding even more dangerous. It's fucking thrilling. Jack loves the game that they just started playing, even though he doesn't know its name.

“Could you be a little more specific, Sir?” he asks cockily and raises his hand to let it rest on the taller male's under arm, his finger pads gently scraping his skin, their gazes still locked.

Apparently that triggered something within his teacher and suddenly he's grabbed hard, long fingers pressing into his shoulder and turning him around. “A little slut.” The words are foreign to Jack – no one ever said them to him and freaking meant them at the same time. Still, there's something about them that makes his adrenaline rise, his heart pounding even quicker, his blood rush through his ears.

“Maybe.” he replies and manages to smirk despite of how much the older man's vice grip makes him tremble. That seems to work even better and the next thing the teen knows is how he is facing the yard and his entrance through the window, feeling Mr. Pitchiner's breath against his ear. “What?” he adds in a sudden fit of bravery, because he wants more of his touch, more of his hot breath brushing him in the right places. “Want me to be yours?”

His teacher doesn't answer. It almost freaks Jack out more than any answer he could have been giving, so he waits, perfectly still. Whatever he does next will probably determine everything. He's putting it all on one card here. Another moment of silence, another quiet inhale right next to his ear.

“I thought that's what you were. I thought you wanted me. And as it was very obvious the last time we met, it was obvious that--” His teacher pauses just enough for Jack's focus to move to the fingers tugging at his belt, but he does not move his eyes from the pair of doves settling on the treebranch outside of his bedroom window as that voice teases at his ear again, "I want you back."

Those words do more to Jack than he ever planned on admitting and the hand slides into his jeans and past the rim of his pants and immediately finds his cock. The action he got with Jamie earlier already aroused him a little, and the harsh touches a moment ago made him half-hard already so he winces at the cool touch, a small mewl leaving his mouth. “Wasn't so sure.” he replies, but it's hard to speak when another hand pushes his jeans down and he's facing the outside world with his pants down. The fingers that had already curled around his erection started to massage him firmly.

His teacher probably got boys off more often. At any rate, he knew exactly what to do with those damn, long fingers of his. Jack let out another spoiled noise and rocked back into Mr. Pitchiner, trying to turn him on, too, but suddenly the other hand is back on his body, grabbing one of his hipbones, keeping his hips still. “Not this time.” he says darkly and damn, Jack wants to melt. He wants to come already. He wants to turn around and kiss his teacher, make him wobbly on his knees, too, but he can't move.

Instead there are teeth gracing his neck, nibbling, biting gently into the skin of it. “You're mine.” his teacher murmurs and it's as if Jack can feel the words with each and every stroke he gives his cock. “Yours.” he says, his voice breaking with how good it feels to say the word. “Yours.” he repeats, voice raising another pitch and he's rewarded by being palmed harder, faster. He looks at the sky now, unable to sink back against the tall man behind him. The doves shuffle and fly off as he gives another moan and the teacher's thumb swirls around the tip of his erection.

He's almost sagging forward with the force of the pleasure he's feeling, but he knows that Mr. Pitchiner wants him to stand just there, so he keeps himself upright. The pace of the older man's hand hadn't took on speed, so he murmurs it again: “Yours.” And it works, he's grabbing his cock harder and keeps the motion of his thumb up. He's pretty sure he has a bite mark on his neck now, but he doesn't care. “Mark me, Sir.” he murmurs, sounding small under his arousal. “Please.”

He doesn't know when he started to speak porn, but apparently he's fluid in it. Good. Because it seems to do something to the adult behind him. He dares to twist his head and try to get a glimpse of his face, but he only sees a little bit of cheekbone before the hand that had been fixating his hip rises to grab his jaw and turn his face back around. Jack has no idea why he has to look at the fucking clouds right now, but he does so that the teacher doesn't stop.

Suddenly Mr. Pitchiner does something that causes his orgasm to wash over him already. Jack is panting and he's pretty sure he never came so hard in the short sexual life he's been leading. “Yours-- forever-- I swear--” he murmurs dully and his head drops as he feels the afterglow coming, the either sickening feeling that you've done something you weren't supposed to, or the drowsy dizziness, according to Jack's experience. It's both, this time.

His teacher lets go of him and quickly gets out a tissue to remove his cum from his hand. “You have a reminder for that now, Jack.” he says and the richness of his voice makes the teen want to leap at him all over again. But he's exhausted, so he just turns around, his hands coming to rest on the window lean for stability. There are strands of sweaty white hair that fell into his face, but he's grinning crookedly. He made it. He feels good, like he accomplished something.

There's a foreign expression in Mr. Pitchiner's eyes. “We have a lot to make up for in the next lesson. You barely learned something.”

“I think I learned a lot.”

“We will have to meet in the middle of the week.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Jack's heart picks up on speed again after that. Does that mean they're going to take it to the next level the next time they meet?

His teacher leaves pretty quickly after that. Jack wishes that for once he'd stay a little longer than the hour he's been paid for, but hey, he really accomplished something today, right? He still feels lonely after the door falls close downstairs. He's lying on his bed for a while, staring at the ceiling. And each time he calls Jamie to evaluate today's happenings and apologize for the kiss-attack, his best friend doesn't pick up the phone.

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a very fucked up journey, but start out quite nice. So have good nerves if you continue reading! Jack also starts out as being 16 years old, so if that's not your thing either...


End file.
